


Torturing Souls

by angelsandbrowncoats



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cutting, Ed's parents are awful, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Love Confessions, M/M, Murder, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Torture, if you're sensitive to these topics at all probably don't risk it, it's only a small portion of the fic but that one part is both plot-heavy and intense, more than awful, not a major part of the fic but Ed is non-binary or at least gender questioning, this is the worst i've ever written them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 14:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16265891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsandbrowncoats/pseuds/angelsandbrowncoats
Summary: Oswald buys an old mansion for cheap, since a bunch of people died there many years ago.His first night staying there, he learns two very important things:1) The house is haunted.2) It's haunted by the most beautiful man he's ever seen.Unfortunately, Oswald is missing a few pieces of the story, pieces which his gorgeous ghost seems very reluctant to provide.





	Torturing Souls

**Author's Note:**

> A note on Ed's gender identification here: if you noticed the bit in the tags about Ed being non-binary & are then confused about him using he/him/his pronouns, A) non-binary people can use he/him/his, and B) I'm projecting my own gender uncertainty onto him (rip) and of all the parts of identifying as female that actually bother me, pronouns are like at the bottom of the list. You could use literally any pronouns for me and I probably wouldn't care. I know pronouns really bother some people, but not me, and this is my rendition, so... 
> 
> Anyways, I wrote this back in early August, specifically after watching Psycho for the first time so that may have bled into it a little bit. I haven't decided how I feel about it as a whole piece, but I figured I'd better post it anyways.
> 
> Also: Less than a quarter of this fic involves suicidal and abusive themes, but that section could be very disturbing/upsetting. Please read with caution.

Oswald looked around the old mansion he had just purchased, satisfied with the deal. Sure, it needed a great deal of work, but it was situated beautifully and had a rich history - the perfect second home. He wanted a comfortable place that was less traceable than his father’s manor, and he was sure this would serve nicely. There was an extremely overgrown garden in both the front and back, a fountain filled with dead leaves instead of water, and a number of broken windows, not to mention the state of the furniture within. At least the structure was sound - he wouldn’t have to do anything with the walls or floors. 

 

“I’d advise switching out at least the outer locks,” the man told him as he handed him the key - an iron skeleton key, “These old kinds are quite easy to break or pick.”

 

“Thank you,” Oswald said, shaking his hand. The man gave him a nod and left him to it. Oswald observed the gardens as he walked through them, trying to think of a way to get Ivy to landscape for free. The large wooden doors loomed over the wrap-around porch, covered with a scalloped awning. He thought the aesthetic would suit him nicely, being all that much grimmer than the Van Dahl mansion. He especially liked how the dead trees near the iron fence twisted up towards the cloudy skies; he’d make sure Ivy left those when she redid the yard. 

 

The door creaked loudly when he opened it, and he found himself standing on the flagstones of the entrance hallway. A grand staircase stood before him, cobwebs clinging to it and with streaks in the dust from where he and agent had stepped as they examined the upper floors. He paused, feeling momentarily as if there were eyes on him, before shaking himself out of it and cursing himself for letting his imagination get the better of him. It was just an old house, that was all. Night was falling fast, so he just needed to eat the food he’d brought with him and go to sleep. Everything would seem normal again in the morning, and he could get started with his renovations.

 

~ ~ ~

 

That night, Oswald tossed and turned for a while before finally drifting off. Around two in the morning, he woke to the sounds of a soft voice singing quietly. Confused, he got out of bed, putting a robe over his pajamas and slippers on his feet before he followed the sound. He found himself climbing up towards the main tower of the house, until he reached the uppermost room in it - a study with a few tall bookshelves, a desk, and a telescope on the balcony. Sitting at the desk, writing in an old leather bound journal, was a man Oswald could swear he had never seen before in his life. Oswald would have remembered such a stunning face, all perfectly sculpted lines and delicate features. The man was clad in a fine Victorian dress, well suited to his surroundings in its intricate dark fabrics, black lace sleeves, and just a touch of green glitter. A naked silver dagger hung at his hip, evidence of poorly cleaned blood stains stark against the metal. In short, he was the most beautiful creature Oswald had ever laid eyes on. 

 

“Who are you?” he asked before he could stop himself. The man all but leapt out of his seat, dropping the book and quill, ink splattering over one of his pale hands. Clearly he hadn’t heard Oswald approach, although that seemed odd considering his awkward gait and the natural difficulties of spiral staircases. The man’s eyes were a lovely shade of brown, Oswald noticed easily as they went wide with shock. Everything about him was so pretty, Oswald knew instinctively he must be dreaming. What a pity, though.

 

“I - I -,” his voice was as soft in speech as it was in song, “Who are  _ you? _ ”

 

“I’m the new owner of this house,” Oswald stated plainly, not giving his name just yet in case more than just his brain was at work here. He vividly recalled both his mother and father’s deep beliefs in the supernatural, and Gotham had always had more than its fair share of oddities. 

 

“Oh,” the man said, as if he were unaware houses could be owned, “I - I suppose you could say I’m the spirit that haunts this house, then.”

 

“A ghost?” Oswald asked, intrigued, even if it was just a dream.

 

“More or less,” the man shrugged, and there was something incredibly sad about the way he said it. Oswald was at a loss as to what.

 

“May I have your name?” he asked, to keep the conversation going. If this beauty was a ghost, then he could fade away at any time, and Oswald would at least like to be able to remember him.

 

“My name is…” he paused, as if thinking, “Edward. It was Edward.”

 

“Edward,” Oswald tried the name out, frowning when he saw the man flinch, “What is it?”

 

“I - the last time someone called me that - well - I - I think I’d rather not…”

 

“Oh,” Oswald said. Perhaps he was remembering dying? He thought and then asked, “What about Ed?”

 

Edward brightened at that, “Ed? I like it. I’ve never had a nickname before.”

 

“Well, it’s about time you got one, Ed,” Oswald smiled at him.

 

“Do you have a name?” Edward asked politely. Oswald considered lying for a moment before deciding that there could be no harm in it - ghosts didn’t use people’s names against them as far as Oswald knew, “I’m Oswald Cobblepot.”

 

“Hello, Oswald. It’s nice to meet you,” he spoke very carefully, as if afraid of upsetting him.

 

“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you,” Oswald said, deciding to take a risk by attempting to grab Edward’s hand and brush his lips over the back of it. He was extremely pleased when he found Edward’s flesh to be solid, at least in the dream, and he enjoyed the blush his actions produced.

 

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” he said eventually, “I didn’t realize there were any spirits in this house, although I am not surprised.”

 

“It’s alright,” Edward said, “You’ve been very kind so far.”

 

“I noticed your dagger,” Oswald gestured at it, “It’s beautifully carved. Is that what’s keeping you here?”

 

Edward looked rather like a deer in headlights as he tried to dance around the question, “I, well, something like that.”

 

“I understand,” Oswald nodded, “We’ve only just met. You don’t have to tell me. But - I wouldn’t mind helping you, if you, you know, want any help.”

 

“What I want the rich need, the poor have, and if you eat it, you’ll die,” Edward burst out suddenly, as if the words couldn’t be contained any longer. Oswald blinked, “Was that… a riddle?”

 

“Do you like riddles?”

 

“Not particularly.”

 

“So you give up?”

 

“I - ”

 

“Nothing! The answer is nothing. I don’t really want anything, although having someone to talk to for the first time in a decade, at least, is… it’s nice. Especially considering you haven’t made fun of me, yet.”

 

“Why would I make fun of you?” Oswald frowned. Edward glanced away with a shrug, “The makeup, the dress, the riddles, anything really.”

 

“Well, if you really do haunt this house, you’ll soon learn that I’m strange enough in my own right,” Oswald informed him, “Nothing you just listed is anywhere near enough to put me off.”

 

“Oh,” Edward said, “Okay.”

 

And then Oswald woke up, back in his own bed, to his alarm clock. He turned the dream around and around in his mind as he got up, wondering if it was just his overactive imagination or if there really was something from beyond in the house that had contacted him overnight. It was probably the former, but the romantic in him held out for the latter. Edward had been so beautiful, and Oswald was curious what sort of tragedy must have befallen him. It felt like it had come out of some old legend. And then there was the bloody knife…

 

Well, most likely he would never see the man again, so it was no use dwelling on how perfect he was. Oswald had more than enough work to do in the next few weeks.

 

He was exhausted by the end of the day, having spent his time cataloguing all the usable furniture in the mansion and all of that which needed to be replaced or had never existed in the first place. He passed out promptly upon laying down in bed, only to be woken once more at two in the morning by soft singing. Recalling what had happened the previous night, he knew he was dreaming, but the voice sounded the same, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t desperately want to see Edward again. Quickly he made himself presentable, perhaps putting in slightly more effort than he had the night before, and rushed to the top of the tower. 

 

His gorgeous angel was there once more, this time standing on the balcony, doors open behind him, observing the grounds. Oswald cleared his throat to alert Edward to his presence, but the other man still flinched as he whirled around.

 

“Ed?”

 

“O - Oswald?” he said, “You came back?”

 

“Of course I did,” Oswald said, “You fascinate me - enchant me, even. I think I am unable to stay away.”

 

Perhaps he would not be so forward if Edward were, for lack of a better word,  _ real, _ or perhaps it had more to do with being in a dream state. 

 

“You are too kind,” Edward replied with a blush, “But nevertheless I am glad. It’s been so lonely here, I’ve lost track of how many years its been since I’ve seen anyone, much less spoke to them. And I can’t remember having as friendly a conversation as ours, well, ever.”

 

“Ever?” Oswald asked, “So you do have a tragic backstory, then?”

 

“I - I don’t know… I suppose?”

 

“I just figured as much,” Oswald told him, “Don’t worry about it. What are you doing out on the balcony? Isn’t it cold? Can you even catch cold?”

 

“I don’t mind it,” he shook his head, “I was watching the lightning.”

 

“Lighting?” Oswald asked. He hadn’t heard any thunder. Edward gestured him towards the balcony, so Oswald joined him.

 

“See?” he pointed at a brief flash of light within the clouds, “It’s a lightning storm.”

 

There was a faint rumbling, but no rain or other signs of ill weather. Just the arcs of electricity jumping through the air. 

 

“Isn’t it breathtaking?” Edward stated more than asked. Oswald nodded nonetheless, “I’ve never seen one before.”

 

“Did you grow up in the city?”

 

“Yes,” Oswald answered, “You?”

 

“I grew up here,” Edward said quietly, a mask falling across his face. Oswald laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, “You don’t have to tell me, remember?”

 

“I know,” he bit his lip, “I know.”

 

That was the last thing Oswald remembered before waking up to his alarm once more. Things continued in the same fashion: Oswald spent all day working, passed out promptly, dreamt of waking up and meeting the ghost of a man called Edward, talking with him for a time, and then waking up for real. He learned all manner of things - Edward’s favorite color was green, he knew more about anatomy than even a skilled murderer and torturer like Oswald, he loved puzzles, and his favorite thing was being able to show off his genius to an appreciative audience. Oswald was more than willing to provide him with such an audience, especially since Edward’s natural beauty increased tenfold with his excitement. Oswald’s favorite thing was quickly becoming listening to Edward’s genius and coming up with ways to praise him that would make him blush in that oh-so-pretty way of his. 

 

There was one not-so-small problem. 

 

Between Edward’s appearance, adorable social awkwardness, and overall match to Oswald’s cynicism, Oswald found himself getting dangerously attached. His mornings soon consisted of reminding himself that if Edward ever was real, he was certainly dead now. That to love him was a folly he did not have the time for. 

 

Yet love him Oswald did. 

 

“So what is it, exactly, that you do?” Edward asked him one night. Oswald weighed his options, but ultimately his eyes fell on the bloody knife as they so often did, and somehow he knew Edward wouldn’t mind, “I’m a criminal.”

 

“Not a common one, I think,” Edward furrowed his brow, “You must be a powerful figure.”

 

“How could you tell?”

 

“There’s something about you. The way you carry yourself, the look in your eyes… you are not the type of man who can bear to bow to another.”

 

“I think that’s the sweetest thing a man has ever said to me,” he grinned at his… friend? Edward smiled right back at him, “So? Powerful figure?”

 

“You could say I’m something of a crime lord,” Oswald laughed, “And what about you? What did you do?”

 

He regretted the question instantly as he watched the smile fall from Edward’s lips.

 

“I - I never had a job. I always thought police-work sounded fun, at least, the science part. But after,” he paused, looking down at the dagger himself, “Well, the police wouldn’t have wanted me anyways. But I couldn’t exactly get a job, could I?”

 

“Ed… what happened?” Oswald figured, many months into their acquaintance, perhaps Edward might be ready to tell him.

 

“You haven’t looked me up?” Edward looked genuinely puzzled.

 

“No, why?”

 

“It’s just, that’s the first thing I would have done, in your place.”

 

“I considered it. I may still, at some point. But I wanted to give you the chance to tell me first.”

 

Edward bit his lip, “Thank you. I’m not ready to tell it yet, though.”

 

“I understand,” Oswald said, “What if, instead, I told  _ you _ something that I have been concealing from you.”

 

“You’ve been keeping a secret?” Edward asked, so innocently that Oswald almost backed down. Instead, he sat down on the loveseat beside the spirit, taking Edward’s hands into his own.

 

“Oswald?”

 

“Ed,” he looked directly into his eyes, “I know we can only see each other like this. I know it seems… illogical, if not impossible. But… I love you.”

 

He felt Edward tense where they were connected, eyes widening in a combination of shock and fear, “You - you love me?  _ Love _ me?  _ You _ love  _ me? _ ”

 

Oswald couldn’t help but laugh lightly at that, “Yes, Ed,  _ I _ love  _ you _ .”

 

“What, what do I even say to this?” Edward’s eyebrows pulled back in confusion.

 

“Well, you could start by telling me your own feelings on the subject.”

 

“Sorry, sorry. Umm, well, I’ve been, er -  _ attracted _ to you since the beginning,” he stumbled through his words, “But, uh, I think I’ve grown very attached as well. You’re - you’re  _ magnificent _ , Oswald. I - I can’t believe that someone so insignificant as I might have caught your eye…”

 

“ _ Insignificant? _ Ed… you are a spirit trapped within this house, beautiful, morbid, and absolutely perfect for me. You are far from insignificant. And I know, I know you’re a ghost and I am not, but, I thought, perhaps we could…”

 

“Oswald,” Edward’s grip on his hands had tightened painfully, “Oswald, I think you should look me up.”

 

“What?”

 

“Look me up. Do research on me. It’s… it’s not going to be correct, just, just look me up and tell me what you find. I’ll tell you the truth afterwards, just… promise not to be mad at me.”

 

“Ed, darling, how could I be mad at you?”

 

Edward was refusing to look at him, staring at his lap instead, “I can’t imagine a scenario where you won’t be.”

 

“Ed?”

 

“Please, just leave it until then. Please?”

 

“Alright,” Oswald agreed reluctantly.

 

“But, maybe, you could - I mean, if you wanted to, that is - perhaps, if it were okay…”

 

“What is it, Ed?” Oswald asked as gently as he could.

 

“Kiss me?”

 

He felt his heart melting and caught Edward’s chin with one hand, turning him with feather-light pressure and leaning in. The kiss was a bit awkward regardless, although neither man had anything with which to compare it which made it more than good enough for them. When Oswald woke for real the next morning, he would spend a good portion of the day wondering if Edward had done that on purpose, to get the subject off himself, since once they started, neither of them wanted to stop. Oswald had sat on the loveseat kissing the object of his affections for an indeterminate amount of time, and no other words were said before the dream ended. Oswald wasn’t ashamed to admit he had shed more than one tear that morning at the knowledge that what he and Edward had was limited to his unconscious. 

 

Nevertheless, he was walking on air all day. That evening, Edward’s words played in his head, and he decided to follow his instructions and do a little research. 

 

He looked into anyone who had owned the house during the 19th and early 20th centuries, but there were absolutely no Edwards involved. Getting desperate, he checked more recent records. He froze when he saw the last owners of the house. They had moved in a little over thirty years ago, a new money family by the name of Nashton. More importantly, they had one son: Edward. Oswald shifted his research into the Nashton family, particularly the life of Edward Nashton. It was incredibly easy work.

 

After a simple google search, the first link that popped up was a bold headline:

 

NASHTON FAMILY TRAGEDY: THREE DEATHS IN THREE WEEKS

 

The story was this: Edward Nashton was a troubled youth. He had always had trouble making friends, he was oddly quiet with the occasional outburst, his parents had always insisted that he had problems retaining information and eventually pulled him from the school system entirely. According to them, having been the only people who saw him, whatever was wrong with him had only increased, until one day they found him dead. Heartbroken at their son’s sudden yet not wholly unexpected suicide, they had immediately left the house, intending to start a new life somewhere else. They returned only once, a couple weeks after the closed-casket funeral, to collect their possessions. There is a lot of debate surrounding what happened, but the generally accepted version was that the house was very old and Mrs. Nashton’s vision had been impaired by tears, so that she hadn’t noticed the rotted out floorboard when she stepped on it. Mr. Nashton had tried to rescue her, but had only succeeded in falling through the floor as well. More than a few broken bones between them, both knocked unconscious, they had died of the blood loss before they ever woke up again. Official autopsies were somewhat inaccurate due to the fact that the rats living in the cellar they’d fallen into had gotten to them first. 

 

All in all, a very dark and grim tale indeed. Oswald recalled Edward’s warning that it wasn’t true, and that Oswald was sure to be furious with him, but he couldn’t for the life of him think why. He resolved to fall asleep as soon as possible to talk to Edward about it. 

 

~ ~ ~

 

That night, he had no dreams.

 

He woke, feeling more lost than he could remember feeling in a very long time. He took a long time heading down to the breakfast parlor, dragging his feet as if Edward might materialize in his bedroom if only he stayed there long enough. But it was not to be. Finally he made his way downstairs, figuring he’d make something easy like toast, only to frown as the smells of a full, hot breakfast reached him. 

 

Curiously, he entered the kitchen, hand on a concealed pistol.

 

There were no threats at the table, only a steaming pot of tea, fresh waffles with strawberries, still-sizzling bacon, and a boiled egg in a cup. Oswald approached the table warily. Who would have done this, and why?

 

There was a note in the center of the table, and Oswald put a glove on before opening it.

 

_ My dearest Oswald, _ the note read,  _ I apologize for missing you last night. I know you know my story now, or at least the version given to the public, and I was afraid of what you might say. I felt bad for abandoning you, so consider this my apology. I promise it’s safe. I look forward to seeing you tonight, when I’ll be ready to tell you my version of events.  _

_ All my love, _

_ Ed _

 

Ghosts could send notes? Oswald raised an eyebrow.

 

Ghosts could make  _ breakfast _ ?

 

Yet, here breakfast was, piping hot and smelling too good to ignore. Oswald’s brain told him it was a trap, perhaps a poisoned banquet set up by one of his enemies, and yet… he had told no one about Edward. Who could have possibly known? His gut was telling him that it was safe, and he always trusted his gut.

 

The food was delicious, and if it was poisoned, he hadn’t felt the effects by that evening. He took his tea by the fire as he contemplated what horrible thing Edward seemed to be hinting at.

 

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have, because he suddenly found himself sitting up on the couch to Edward’s beautiful singing. It was much closer than usual, and Oswald was surprised to see Edward enter the drawing room. They had never met outside the study before, and Oswald had taken to calling it Edward’s study, assuming the man must have used it frequently in life.

 

Edward said nothing as he entered the room, coming to sit beside his… friend? Lover?

 

They sat together in silence for some time, before it became unbearable for Oswald, and he broke it, “Ed? I’ve read what the papers had to say about your death. I want to know your version of the story. Is that knife the one you used to…?”

 

Edward drew the knife from the loop at his waist, laying it flat across his palms, “Yes. And no.”

 

“How do you mean?”

 

“This is the knife that did the deed, but you do not know the deed.”

 

“I do not?”

 

“I - I think it’s best to start from the beginning. My parents were, in the eyes of upper class society, nearly perfect. They had started in the middle class and had found great success in their work, becoming two of the richest people around. They were admired by many, and they had all the appearance of being the perfect couple. Always dressed smartly, always charming, and always doting on each other. This was no illusion. It was entirely true.”

 

“So they were good people?” Oswald asked. He had not been expecting that.

 

Edward snorted, eyes fixed on the dagger, “No. Well, maybe. I don’t know. Perhaps they were, once. Or perhaps they were, mostly. I’m not sure who was in the wrong. You see, they were missing one thing. A lot of the older families weren’t quite as pleased to see new faces, and they tried to pressure my parents into being as traditional as possible. My parents didn’t mind, for the most part. At least, they weren’t opposed to any of the ideas. But the most important idea of all was to have an heir for your company.”

 

“You,” Oswald prompted, when Edward fell silent.

 

He nodded, “It took them long enough, and they were so happy when I was born. I have some very vague memories from my childhood of them. For the first few years, they spoiled me, doted on me even more than they did each other. But it came with a price that was just too high for me.”

 

“A price?”

 

“I became the centerpiece of every gathering. They forced me into the spotlight time and time again, making me greet everyone in their circles. I couldn’t take it, and I would often throw tantrums. They were understanding, at first. When I was very little. But after awhile, they became furious. Told me it was time to grow up. I didn’t know how to stop, though. I hated those parties. I felt like I was suffocating, surrounded by all those people. Always walking on eggshells, afraid I would say the wrong thing at any moment, because I didn’t have a clue what the right thing was. I tried to explain it to them, but they wouldn’t listen. They told me I was talking back, and that it wasn’t to be tolerated. That was when they started…” he stopped talking, one hand drifting towards his cheek.

 

Oswald felt something cold settle in his stomach, a level of anger that usually resulted in death, “Did they hit you?”

 

Edward nodded again, still looking at the knife in his lap rather than Oswald.

 

“It just got worse the older I got. I didn’t know what was wrong with me, and they didn’t either. All they knew was that I was damaged, and not good enough to be the heir. But it was too late - my mother couldn’t have any more children. I was all they had. So they pulled me from school, hoping they could hide my deficiencies from the world and praying they could fix me before I reached adulthood. That I could reemerge from my homeschooling as the perfect golden boy. 

 

By my sixteenth birthday, they had given up. I knew it was coming. I knew I wasn’t changing. That was when they started messing with my head.”

 

“Messing with your head?” Oswald asked, laying a hand lightly on Edward’s forearm. He tensed but didn’t retreat.

 

“Yes. They knew all their efforts over the past few years had left me worse off than I’d been originally. I was probably officially ‘disturbed’ by that point. So they decided it would be for the best if they could push me over the edge. Wouldn’t it be neat? Clean? They would be rid of me for no price at all. They might even earn some public sympathy while they were at it. Who would know that they were intentionally driving me to do it if they were the only ones who had spoken with me, and I was dead?”

 

Oswald fought back the bile rising in his throat at the thought of these vile people. He gently nudged Edward on, “So what happened?”

 

“I had always liked the look of dresses. The aesthetic. And I had been sneaking up to the study for years, and while there, I would often try on the old dresses that had been stashed there. One day my mother found me, and she got so angry. The things she said to me… Anyways, I couldn’t stand it any longer. All that pent-up self hatred and despair burst out. I threatened to kill myself, not knowing it was what they wanted. And then, my father looked at my mother, then back at me, and said - I can still hear the words,” Edward buried his face in his hands, Oswald’s arm slipping off and moving to his knee, “He - he said, ‘You’re pathetic. Edward, the little freak. For once in your life do something right and rid our family of its curse.’ He meant me, of course.”

 

Edward broke off again, wracked by sobs, and Oswald’s free arm came up around his shoulders in a half-embrace, holding him while he cried. 

 

“I grabbed an old ornate dagger that we kept around as decoration. From that cabinet over there. I - I made the first mark while they watched, but they neither apologized nor told me they were proud of my decision. I couldn’t look at them anymore, so I ran up to the study. If I was to die, I decided I wanted it to be in the one place where I had at least some semblance of a happy memory. From the balcony I watched them leave. They were smiling for the first time in years, walking arm in arm just like they had in all the old photos, from before me. And it hit me, suddenly, that my pain had little to do with me, and everything to do with them. They didn’t want a son, they wanted an  _ heir _ . The perfect showpiece that would become their clone. They didn’t want me, would never want me,” he was shaking now, but not with sobs.

 

“I hadn’t yet made any other cuts. It was just the one. And as I watched them, so pleased with themselves for finally finding a way to be rid of me that wouldn’t bring them shame, I became furious. How  _ dare _ they bring me into the world like that? How  _ dare _ they force me into isolation? How  _ dare _ they act so smug, as if they were innocent, as if they could do this to me and then just forget about it like a bad dream?” Edward had dropped his hands, staring at the wall in front of him with pure rage, “I knew they would be back. They had left without all their precious family belongings. Their  _ heir _ looms. So I patched myself up; luckily, I had found a number of old forensic texts in the library, so I had a basic knowledge of the body. I took my dagger, and I laid in wait. I read about the funeral while I was waiting. I wasn’t surprised they’d gone ahead without my body. I don’t think they wanted to risk being exposed. Say I’d left a message in blood or a note or something. They just wanted the eyes of the public off me and on them. I think they planned on burning this place down once their treasures were out, anyways. Eventually they returned, and they walked right into my trap. I knew which items were the most expensive. Where they were sure to go. So I built the trap and they strolled right in. I still remember the looks on their faces when I revealed myself. I chained them up and tore them apart bit by bit.”

 

He clenched his hands into fists, knuckles white, “I made sure they stayed alive for a good long while. And conscious. I wanted them to know what was happening to them and who was doing it. And more importantly, why. But they never understood. They feared me, in the end, but it didn’t change anything. They just assumed this was what was wrong with me. That they were right for keeping me locked away and beaten, because this is what they were keeping away from the world. I never was able to make them understand that I was only doing this because of what they’d done to me,” he twisted his hands together in agitation, “I still doubt myself to this day. What if they were right?  I - I just don’t know. Anyways, they eventually succumbed to the torture, and I knew people would come looking for them. I’d seen the paper announcing my suicide, so I had a great alibi. I just needed to make sure nobody investigated their deaths too closely. It was easy to set up, honestly. The floor was already partially rotted, I just needed to break it, dump the bodies, and lure in a bunch of rats to eat the evidence. The case was closed before it began.”

 

Oswald was still holding Edward, even though he wasn’t curled up anymore. He waited to hear the rest of the story, but none was forthcoming.

 

“So…?” he prompted.

 

Edward frowned, “So what?”

 

“What happened next?”

 

“Nothing happened next. The police left, I moved into the study upstairs, more or less. I sneak out to steal food, and I grow a bit in the old greenhouse, but otherwise I stay in my study and read. I tend to sleep during the day. It’s easier to move undetected at night, and I don’t want to be mistaken for a squatter. Police are cruel enough when you aren’t blurring gender lines, I’m frankly terrified of what they’d do if they found me dressed like this.”

 

“I would murder anyone who laid a hand on you, my dearest,” Oswald assured him, “But I don’t understand. If you patched yourself up, then how did you die?”

 

Edward opened and shut his mouth a few times, briefly making eye contact before his eyes snapped away again, “Did - did you like your breakfast?”

 

Oswald frowned at his blatant avoidance of the question, “It was delicious. I didn’t realize spirits could -  _ oh _ .”

 

_ Oh _ . Edward hadn’t been avoiding the question. He’d been telling a riddle. He had  _ become _ a riddle. And now he was frozen, staring at Oswald with his wide doe eyes, arms half raised. Oswald was about to ask him about it, when that clicked into place as well. Their conversation from two nights ago sprang to mind.

 

_ “Ed, darling, how could I be mad at you?” _

 

_ “I can’t imagine a scenario where you won’t be.” _

 

Edward was terrified of him. It broke his heart. 

 

“Why did you tell me you were a ghost?”

 

“I didn’t,” Edward bit his lip, looking back at his lap, “I said I was like a spirit haunting the house, which is technically true. A spirit can refer to a person, after all. Plus, I’ve been assumed dead, I never had much of a life to begin with, and I  _ do _ haunt this house. The fact that I am perfectly alive is irrelevant.”

 

“But you knew I assumed otherwise.”

 

He shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable, but Oswald wanted the truth, “I was afraid you’d turn me in, at first. If you thought I wasn’t real, you wouldn’t make me leave.”

 

“And afterwards?”

 

“I wasn’t sure how to tell you. No one had ever been so kind to me, and you were open about having killed many people, so I knew you wouldn’t mind me… needless to say, I fell for you fast. I didn’t want you to get mad and leave me. I didn’t want to lose you. I suppose I knew it was inevitable, but I wanted to be selfish, and have as much time with you as possible. But when you told me you loved me back… I knew I couldn’t keep lying to you. You can’t build love on lies.”

 

“Ed - ”

 

Suddenly, Edward burst into tears again, all but throwing himself on Oswald, “I’m so sorry. So sorry. Please forgive me, please!”

 

Oswald carefully wrapped his arms around him, rubbing a soothing hand up and down his back, “Shh, darling, of course I forgive you. You were frightened and bent the truth to protect yourself. You think I’ve never done anything like that? Your being alive doesn’t make me love you less. In fact, it makes things easier.”

 

“It does?” Edward looked up at him, and Oswald noticed his makeup was streaking down his face. He pulled out a handkerchief and started wiping it off as gently as he could and answered, “Yes. I thought I could only see you in sleep. If you’re real, that means I can see you all the time. You could even, if you wanted to, sleep with me.”

 

Edward breathed in sharply, a silent gasp, eyes shining with hope and disbelief, “You really mean that? After everything I’ve just told you?”

 

“Which part has you confused?”

 

“I just told you how I tortured and killed my parents, and you want to invite me into your - your  _ bed _ ?” His voice caught on the last word, and Oswald couldn’t hold back a tiny grin. 

 

“Oh  _ no _ . You’ve killed a whole  _ two people _ . Whatever shall I do?” Oswald rolled his eyes, “I know! I’ll go capture some more so I can help you get caught up to  _ my _ score. I doubt you’ll ever make it there, but it sounds like a fun date idea, doesn’t it?”

 

“What, murder and coffee?”

 

“Precisely. We drive back after disposing of the body, I invite you in for a cup of coffee, the most comfortable chairs in the house happen to be in my bedroom, so of course we must take it there. You find yourself to be very tired, so I invite you to stay the night, and then…”

 

The loveliest shade of pink was dusting Edward’s cheeks, and Oswald let his smile grow fully before leaning in to kiss a little more color into his lips. 

 

“I am beginning to think that you are a dream of my  _ own _ making,” Edward sighed against him. Oswald pulled him a fraction closer, pressing their bodies even tighter together, “Is there any creature as perfect as you?”

 

Edward opened his mouth, presumably to dispute the claim, but Oswald’s finger laying across them shut him up quickly, “Did I give you permission to argue when I’m complimenting you?”

 

Edward shook his head, unsure if he was allowed to answer verbally. Oswald just grinned conspiratorially at him and captured him in another kiss, “I love you, my darling Ed.”

 

If Edward had considered himself a tortured soul, he had finally found another soul to match. Oswald was his everything, and he knew, deep down, that he meant just as much to the other man. He couldn’t wait to spend his life terrorizing the unsuspecting populace with his knight in bloody armor. Oswald would love him and care for him the way he had always craved, and he would be the loyal companion that Oswald needed. They were perfect for each other - just two unstoppable, twisted beings who wanted to paint Gotham with the blood of the undeserving.

 

For once in his life, Edward looked to the future with more hope than dread.

  
And for once in  _ his _ life, Oswald experienced the present with more joy than mere satisfaction. 

**Author's Note:**

> You bet the title of this is a pun.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed
> 
> Comments/Kudos are always appreciated!


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